Silent Echoes
Gareth Lewis
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Gareth Lewis
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The liquid of dubious provenance shuddered in the cup as a patron staggered by, dragging his shadow toward the door. Skerin didn’t raise his eyes from his drink as the man passed. As the evening wore on, he wondered when they’d make their move.
They’d studied him since their arrival a short while ago. Not that they were alone watching him. Strangers were rare this deep into the city, especially lone strangers.
He couldn’t nurse the drink all night, and didn’t want to risk getting drunk, so he’d finish it leave, see if they followed.
Catching a glimpse of Althek rising as he lifted the cup, Skerin stuck to a sip rather than emptying it. He set it down as the shadow crept over the table, and glanced up to meet Althek’s smile.
“Welcome,” said Althek, taking the seat opposite. His clothes were unusually fashionable for this district, well-cut and cleaner than those of the other patrons. And his short, spiky hair seemed well-tended. He maintained a personable smile. “We don’t get many strangers in here.”
Skerin glanced around at the mostly averted gazes, paying particular attention to the pair who’d accompanied Althek, the only ones who met his eyes. “Really?” said Skerin. His voice had a gravely tone, his lips barely parting to let the words out.
With an amused smile, Althek joined him in glancing around the room. “It’s not the most sociable of neighbourhoods. I’m Althek.”
“Skerin.”
“Pleased to meet you. And please excuse my neighbours. I’m afraid they’ve reason to be suspicious of strangers. Mainly strangers from other parts of the city. From the look of you I suspect you’re stranger than that.”
His eyes swept over Skerin, taking in the dark leather coat and green silken shirt, either of which alone would be exotic in the city these days. He’d dressed for the occasion, shifting from the local fashions he’d used to merge into the area during the past days. It meant less suspicion that he worked for another gang, but drew curiosity.
“I’m sure everyone’ll be more relaxed once we get to know a bit about you,” said Althek. “Such as what’re you doing in Thelmus.”
“Looking for something,” said Skerin.
“I’d be only too happy help,” said Althek.
“Found it. Need to work out a trade.”
“It must be valuable, to bring you into this cesspit?”
“Heirloom.”
While the smile remained on Althek’s lips, his eyes tightened in irritation. Still, for a thug he exercised remarkable restraint. “You a merchant?”
“No,” said Skerin. “Scientist.”
His eyes grew tense. “A practitioner?”
Skerin nodded.
“What’s your discipline?” said Althek.
“Whisperer.” A student of Audiomancy, Whisperers used the magical energies to explore the subtler applications of the discipline, as opposed to Thunderers, who basically made a lot of noise.
“Don’t know any Naming, do you?” said Althek.
“Naming’s rare where I’m from,” said Skerin.
“Here too,” said Althek, relaxing slightly. “Now, anyway.”
He didn’t elaborate, despite Skerin’s curious glance. Not that it was necessary. Brak Shadoweater hated Namers, and Althek was one of Brak’s men. He’d report the presence of a practitioner to Brak, and they’d at least keep an eye on him. If he let things go that way.
“Interesting talisman,” said Althek, nodding at the twisted piece of wood hanging from Skerin’s neck. “Is it imbued?”
“No,” said Skerin. “Just plain woo...” He grabbed Althek’s wrist as the man reached to examine it.
Althek’s gaze went cold in a snap. The room went quiet, as people forgot to ignore the conversation. Althek’s flunkies were on their feet, but held their distance.
The smile slid from Althek’s face. “That wasn’t a smart move.” He tried retracting his arm gently, so as not to lose face if Skerin didn’t let go. He did, and Althek sat back, regarding him.
“No,” said Skerin. “It wasn’t.”
“Looks like this doesn’t happen the easy way.”
“Easy way was too much work.”
“You might reconsider that. You’ll have to come with us now.”
“Do I?” said Skerin.
“This is our domain. You’re challenging our authority. That we can’t let stand.”
“If I refuse?”
Althek smiled, this time bereft of any hint of warmth. “I’ll have to ask you to refuse outside. I like it in here.”
After draining the remains of his drink, mainly for effect since he’d rather have left it, Skerin stood and led the way outside. He was confident they’d wait at least a few strides before attacking.
The skies had grown dark, and not simply from the departing sun. The edge to the air meant Althek could be reluctant to call on lightning from the skies. With the local weather systems, it’d be too unstable.
A Lightcaster, Althek could call down and play with lightning. Even without using the skies, he’d have a few lightning bottles. A skilled Lightcaster rarely needed more than that in a fight. If he got beyond the first bottle, Skerin had a problem.
Turning after a few steps, he found the three spreading out, Althek in the centre. Since his flunkies drew blades, Skerin’s research appeared correct in identifying them as non-practitioners. It was uncommon among city-born, anyway.
Taking a metal container from his belt, Althek gingerly drew a glass vial from it. The white flicker within identified a bolt of pure lightning, trapped by the imbued glass.
Uncorking it, Althek slipped his hand over the end, grabbing the lightning as it tried to flee. It sparked and flailed in his grasp as he replaced the vial.
He met Skerin’s gaze, and a red flame danced along the lightning. Showy, but splicing together Optomics and Pyromancy was dangerous, and using them in combat would be too volatile, risking them blowing up in his face. This’d be to put his opponent off, but Skerin had done enough poking around to know Althek combined Optomics with Kinetics in combat. As with most amateur splicers, he’d found a combination that worked and stuck with it.
His splice meant the lightning wouldn’t be a one-shot attack: he could keep it in motion until it struck its target. But he’d have to slow it, or risk it discharging too much energy when it hit other surfaces, leaving it reduced when it found its target.
Clearing his mind, Skerin closed his eyes a moment, entering the meditative state that let him access Audiomantic energies. Itself a splicing of other disciplines, Audiomancy had become commonplace enough to have its own discipline.
Opening his eyes, he inclined his head questioningly at Althek.
“I’ll assume you’re ready,” said Althek. The predatory glint in his eye betrayed his enthusiasm. He’d killed a Thunderer not long ago, and didn’t seem to think much of Audiomancy.
Skerin shrugged, starting the sub-sonic hum which prepared his energies. He drew the small throwing knife from up his right hand sleeve. It was made of thelmis, a metal too soft for common weapons. Found in Yursten, where it was a component of a discipline limited to local bloodlines, the metal proved unusually responsive to Audiomancy.
The thugs advanced as Althek hurled the lightning, the flame around it vanishing. While slower than it should be, it was still fast. And blinding enough he had trouble judging how fast. The glare would also work against Althek.
He barely reacted in time, a sharp whistle raising an invisible vibrating barrier before him. It disrupted the lightning’s path enough to let him duck aside. Letting the shield drop as soon as he was clear, he snapped to a sharp high-pitched whistle as he continued moving, not wanting to provide a stationary target.
The left-most thug stumbled as blood spurted from his throat. The invisible blade evaporated as soon as it struck. The thug grabbed the wound as he fell, too late.
The other two grew alert at this. A Thunderer announced his moves, and apparently Althek hadn’t seen a Whisperer in combat before. Not a skilled one, leastways.
Rolling from where he expected the lightning to be coming at his back, Skerin hurled the knife at Althek, setting him back a step. He yanked the lightning back to shield him. An abrupt whistle at the last moment altered the knife’s course. It turned aside, thudding into the second thug’s head. A bit too solidly to pull loose.
The lightning wasn’t as slow this time, and Skerin had no time to raise a shield as he dodged. It caught his left shoulder, searing agony lancing through him as his legs gave way. He shook the pain away, remaining conscious. The charge must have been dissipated by the flight and collisions, or it’d have been worse. His fingers still worked, so the damage couldn’t be too bad, despite the smell of burnt flesh which threatened to make him woozy.
Althek reached for a second container.
Quickly recovering his meditative state, Skerin whistled as Althek drew the vial. While the imbuing of the glass strengthened it with magical energies, the reinforcement was to contain the lightning. It was still glass.
The vial shattered in Althek’s hands, breaking his concentration before he was ready. While Lightcasters were resistant to lightning, an unexpected fresh charge was enough to send him stumbling in pain, the lightning lost.
He was stunned, but still standing, and had a container left.
Skerin threw his second knife. He couldn’t get much strength behind it, but a whistle added to its momentum. Panic gripped Althek as his senses returned, and he tried ducking aside while fumbling for the last container. The whistle shifted, and the knife followed him. He didn’t escape.
Maybe not as clean as he’d hoped, but Skerin had won. Or at least survived.
Ensuring his legs would support him, he stood. Checking Althek was dead, he retrieved his knives and left.
*
Purple lightning split the dark skies by the time he’d assured himself he wasn’t followed. He hadn’t thought anyone in the tavern would do so, but had to be sure. A night like this made it easy to spot anyone, with most sane people would be indoors.
The unnatural colour of the skies meant unstable weather, and he didn’t want to get stuck out here. It could mean a dry rain, or burning sleet.
No longer stopping every turn, he set a steady pace, only slowing as he approached the rope bridge. It spanned the twenty foot wide chasm separating one street from its neighbour. How deep the chasm went nobody had measured, and even in daylight the bottom was hard to determine.
He couldn’t help glancing around before setting foot on it, since he’d be vulnerable while crossing. There was no one around. Taking a deep breath, and focussing on the trapped lightning streetlamp illuminating the far side, he crossed with a firm grip of the guide rope.
The chasm petered out before it got halfway to the city walls, maybe a mile from where he crossed, and carried on the other way to the gaping scar where the Imperial University and Imperial Palace had once stood.
While magic had been restricted to the elite, few limits had been placed on their experiments. The idea had been to combine various weather disciplines to assert dominion over nature. The greatest minds had worked on it. And failed. None survived to tell what went wrong, but it shattered the city, the heart of the Empire. While elements of government survived, the succession became so contentious among the surviving nobility that the nations forced under the yoke of the Empire took advantage of the chaos to make it redundant. The Empire shattered.
With dangerously unstable weather making the city hostile, many departed. Those with money led the flight, and the city fell to the rule of the gangs, constantly vying for terrain. With surrounding lands also affected by the turbulence, few evacuees found support there, and the now-free nations became hostile to large numbers of refugees, so the exodus slowed as people realised they were stuck here. And life went on.
The rope bridge behind him, Skerin moved through ruined buildings along the edge of the chasm, and through abandoned ones surrounding his destination. Larger than its neighbours, if not in much better condition outside, Lyrem’s house had a lightning bar above the front door, illuminating it with a crackly light. The rear door opened only from inside, so Skerin had little choice but to use the far too visible front.
At least it offered some comfort. And protection from lightning. Lyrem would have opened the collector on the roof. He believed it easier to collect lightning at night, when it had a harder time finding its way back to the sun.
He closed the door behind him, its creak setting his nerves on edge, and made his way through the foyer.
Spacious, with a high ceiling and balconies on the next level, the room had relatively clean furniture. A dozen armchairs had been mostly scavenged from elsewhere, with little attention paid to how they matched. Lightning bars encircled the room with light, their luminescence currently set low. A door at the far end led to the living quarters.
Lyrem would still be working, though, so Skerin ascended the stairs to the balcony, and made his way through to the lab. Bristling with an electric tension, the place was a supposedly organised chaos, a stark contrast to the precise order his host preferred for the rest of the house.
Lyrem glanced up as he entered, peering over the rims of his work glasses. He frowned on seeing Skerin’s shoulder. Sighing, he removed the glasses and moved to inspect the wound.
Of middling height, Lyrem had a receding hairline and a bushy, grey-shot, moustache. “Things are in motion, then?”
Skerin nodded.
“Not too late to change your mind.” He sounded hopeful.
Skerin said nothing.
Lyrem sighed. “You couldn’t at least have brought back a fresh corpse?”
Skerin glanced at the shoulder.
“You’ve got another one,” said Lyrem, shaking his head. “The agreement didn’t include patching you up.” Nevertheless, he sat Skerin down and set to work.
The treatment wasn’t painless. Lyrem often forgot that living patients succumbed to such sensations. Ointments reduced it to a bearable level, though, and soon it was over. The wound remained a harsh lesson in planning his strategies with more care, especially for what lay ahead.
“Progress?” he asked as Lyrem returned to his work.
His attention on the body strapped firmly to the table, Lyrem gave a faint nod. “Some. The restored area of flesh seems to be absorbing the ambient magical energies. A limited amount, but more than normal.”
A skilled Necromancer, Lyrem could reputedly animate a recently dead body for almost an entire day. Any which had been dead longer than a couple of days had little in the way of conscious thought, however. The main problem was that Necromantic magics relied on the absorbed magic energies within the host for their power, and bodies absorbed little once life ceased. Animating them didn’t change that, so they drew on a finite reserve.
Skerin had learned Floramancy from the Gardeners of Harlek, one of the few magics now allowed in the former breadbasket of the Empire. One application allowed the restoration of life and vitality to plants, but took too much power to afford on any but the rarest breeds. Skerin had brought it to Lyrem with the idea of splicing it with Necromancy to restore an extra measure of life to his experiments.
“It’s prevented the degradation of the body somewhat,” said Lyrem.
Joining him, Skerin saw the left arm remained a healthier pink than the rest of the grey cadaver. It stirred, its vague eyes not quite focussing. They’d need something fresher for further experimentation, and he knew Lyrem was anxious to see whether the technique would have any effect on the brain, although that could be messier.
While primarily interested in one application of the splice, Skerin was fascinated by the results, and what it could mean. It would require more testing, and now he looked at it he was sure the top of the arm wasn’t as pink as it had been a couple of hours past. Still, it could suit his purposes.
*
Many trades had been lost with the Shattering, street cleaning among them. Other trades, such as information brokering, had adapted. It still, inevitably, occurred in private rooms, often with a thug or two looming in the background.
Ignoring the thug, or bodyguard as Prialtys would undoubtedly label him, Skerin focussed his attention on his host.
Her red hair cut short, Prialtys’ face was blank as she regarded him, giving away absolutely nothing for free. He remembered her from the old days, but doubted she’d been aware of him. She’d been too busy becoming one of the city’s bosses. While she’d ultimately failed, she’d been one of the rare ones who survived such a failure, although the scar down the left of her face reminded her of it. A gift from Brak. That made her the obvious source for information on him. She’d since secured a profitable niche as one of the city’s main information brokers.
Having finished counting his money, she held his gaze, the coins still on the table between them.
“Why the interest in Brak?” she said.
“What’ll you pay for that information?” said Skerin.
She offered a faint smile. “I’m raising the price for my information. It occurred to me that I’m taking quite a risk, should Brak learn it came from me.”
“You stated a fair price,” he nodded at the money.
“You’re free to take it and leave.”
Was she bluffing? Probably. It was a significant amount of money. But the information wouldn’t cost much, and he needed to know her response.
Scowling as he pretended to consider it, Skerin waited before replying.
“A young scientist,” he said. “Studying Naming. Brak was establishing himself, so the stories hadn’t gone beyond rumours. They beat the boy, and... the rest. Left him to bleed to death in the gutter.” He went quiet, allowing his real anger to show, controlled and upset at having to recall events.
Prialtys nodded. Brak’s reaction towards Namers was now well known. It was a poorly-kept secret that a prophecy said Brak would lose his power to a Namer. As a result, he took measures to deal with any Namer in the city. Even the other bosses avoided interfering if he heard of one on their turf. They didn’t always die at his hand, but he always took their tongue, to stop it being turned against him.
“Who was he to you?” said Prialtys.
“Does it matter?” said Skerin, his eyes hard.
Prialtys shrugged. “Suppose not. Rolk Darnen. That’s his real name.”
Skerin nodded, rising.
“Are you also a Namer?” said Prialtys.
He met her gaze. “What’s it worth?”
She held his gaze a moment, before shrugging. “Curiosity is an occupational hazard.”
Nodding, he turned and left.
Rolk Darnen. It sounded right for the area in which he’d grown up. So Rolk was probably a contemporary. It definitely wasn’t Brak’s name, but he hadn’t expected it would be. Prialtys may hate Brak, but she had financial problems, and she’d put aside feelings where money was involved.
It was a couple of minutes before he spotted the tail. It’d be one of Prialtys’ men rather than one of Brak’s. If she’d already informed him, he’d have set a trap. Skerin had examined the place before going in, to make sure it wasn’t. No, Prialtys would want all the information, including where he was staying, before approaching Brak. Having given him a false name would be a bonus.
So the bait had been taken. Well worth the cost, provided things went as planned.
*
The restored flesh continued to lose its hold on the animate body. The second one had lasted over a day now. Restoring life to a larger area of the body allowed it to hold on longer than the first, but it was diminishing.
While Lyrem still hoped revitalising the complete body might achieve ongoing results, the power required to achieve this much had been taxing.
A yelp from the treatment room drew his gaze, his nerves already on edge. Lyrem was treating a knife wound. While Necromancy wasn’t considered respectable, its practitioners had a fair idea of repairing the human body, so their skills gained them a degree of acceptance among those who couldn’t afford proper physicians. In Skerin’s experience they tended to be more reliable than physicians, anyway. Not that people liked having Necromancers as neighbours, since noxious aromas often accompanied them, but in a city bereft of physicians they were treated with respect.
It might give Brak a moment’s pause before bursting in. Not much more than a moment, though.
Whimpers continued from the open door leading to the treatment room, but the worst seemed done. Even if there’d been more patients waiting below, the door would still be open. Lyrem didn’t concern himself with, or possibly even consider, the effects such noises had on guests, and seemed to prefer doors left open.
Apart from the one at the back of the room, that Skerin knew better than to approach. He had only faint memories of Lyrem’s wife, having been young when she’d died. He hadn’t seen her since, but knew she lay behind that door, as well-preserved as Lyrem’s skills allowed. His life since, and his studies, had been devoted to restoring her, so he’d leapt at the opportunity Skerin offered with the Floromancy secrets.
Guilt niggled Skerin at what might happen if he failed. While Lyrem’s position offered protection, would it protect him from Brak? He didn’t pay the feeling too much attention, since he couldn’t allow himself doubt. He knew what he was doing. It had gone according to plan so far. This was simply anticipation.
The patient emerged, sending a brief glance Skerin’s way before scurrying out. Lyrem emerged, dumping his payment in a nearby bowl as he rejoined Skerin.
“Continuing its retreat,” Lyrem said with dismay, if not surprise, as he examined the restored section.
Skerin nodded, glancing after the departed patient. “One of Brak’s?”
“Probably,” said Lyrem. “Not the kind to get in a knife fight. Not the kind to get away with just that if he did, anyway.”
“They’ll be here soon,” said Skerin.
“Guess so. Still time to run.”
“No. They’ll be watching.”
“You used to be a scientist,” Lyrem said with irritation. “Why don’t you consider the subject with your head rather than your spleen? Stop letting your anger guide you.”
“I am thinking. Everything’s planned. Unless you’d rather I did it elsewhere?”
“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” barked Lyrem.
“I should prepare.”
Lyrem muttered and waved him away as he focussed on his work.
*
The foyer was empty. He’d had time to remove the furniture while waiting for Brak, and had things as he wanted them. A few large candles lit the room, and his thelmis knives lay on the edges of the balcony above where his guests would enter.
Leaning against the opposite wall, he worked to calm his nerves, focussing on his strategy. He knew he’d need to end it quick if he hoped to survive.
He wondered whether Brak would wait until night. That would be irritating. And might leave him exhausted. It wasn’t likely, given Brak’s impatience. If there was the possibility of a Namer here, he wouldn’t wait.
The outside door soon slammed open. There were five of them, as Skerin had anticipated. Not knowing what he was capable of, bringing more to an indoor fight risked them getting in each other’s way. He’d brought two of his best combat practitioners, and a couple of burly thugs. The thugs Skerin didn’t recognise; probably outsiders, hired to avoid the risk of him knowing their real names. The other two were as expected. The Pyromancer and Glale Summoner.
Skerin’s attention fixed on Brak Shadoweater himself. Slight of build, Brak had a dangerous leanness, and an intense gaze which burned into Skerin as his men spread out. The elegant jacket and waistcoat were spoiled by the necklace of tongues hanging just short of his waist, and the shaved head added to his intimidating appearance.
Stepping in front of a candle, Brak let his shadow stretch across the room. Keeping a wary eye on it, Skerin remained tight to the wall. A Shadowcaster, Brak could solidify his shadow to attack others, either directly or via their shadows. If his shadow grabbed someone else’s, he could hold them in place. He’d taken the discipline a step further, splicing it with Vordun. A barbaric magic, shunned by most, Vordun gave its practitioner control of another whose flesh they had consumed. Brak had spliced it so he gained the same power by having his shadow consume part of another’s shadow.
From the vicious grin creasing his face, Brak thought he had the advantage. His men looked ready for violence, familiar enough with it to exhibit little nervousness.
“I understand you have something to say to me,” said Brak. His voice matched the brutal sharpness of his expression. He was playing.
“You have something of mine,” said Skerin.
Brak’s smile dipped, irritated at not hearing what he expected. “You seem to be misunderstanding the rules. What I have is mine. Whoever may have had it before is irrelevant. But tell me, what is it I have that you consider yours?”
“My tongue,” said Skerin, opening his mouth to show the stump. He whistled through his nose, setting up vibrations in the wooden talisman carved to approximate a normal sounding voice. “I want it back,” it said in a rougher than normal tone.
The surprise on Brak’s face shifted to anger, and he leapt forward, his shadow grabbing for Skerin.
A whistle pushed the switch for the lightning bars around the room, overwhelming the candlelight and diffusing shadows enough that Brak’s lost solidity.
“Get him,” roared Brak. Then he screamed obscenities in hopes of drowning out Skerin’s voice, in case he happened to know his real name.
He did. The noise offered little protection, as Skerin whispered it, his powers vibrating the words directly into Brak’s eardrums. He went quiet.
“Kill your shadow,” said Skerin, with all the power of a Namer behind his words. Then he turned his attention to the immediate danger.
One of the thugs attacked the lightning bars, which would take some effort to damage. A Lightcaster could disable them with a thought, of course, but Brak’s Lightcaster had met an untimely end.
The Pyromancer sent a torrent of flame down the room. It left scorched carpet in its wake, but broke against the wall Skerin erected, the vibrations shaking the flame apart. The wall didn’t block all the heat, and became a struggle to maintain. The flame also took effort, and as soon as the others got close it dropped.
The thug came in from the left, the glale from the right.
Conjured from pure magical energy, the seven foot green humanoid was featureless. Glale Calling hailed from distant Narfus, where practitioners duelled, their talents judged as much on the fine detail of their conjurations as their strength. This one focussed on utility.
Switching quickly to a high-pitched whistle, Skerin ran at the thug as he called the first of the thelmis knives, the two of them weighted for slightly different pitches. It caught the thug in the throat just before they met. Grabbing the knife in passing, he yanked it out as the man fell, aware of the glale mere steps behind.
He hurled the knife at the Summoner. Whistling a double pitch, he pulled both knives at the man.
The thrown knife was caught by a sudden wall of flame. Thrown off course as the heat disrupted its sympathetic properties, it clattered to the floor. The second one went unnoticed until the Summoner gave a strangled yelp. The glale fell apart, its energies dissipating.
Seeing the Summoner collapse, the Pyromancer’s professional reserve melted as he realised the danger. He barely managed a spark before the invisible blade of sound sliced his throat.
The lightning bar broke with a crackle of energy as the final thug managed to shatter a connection, letting all the lightning dissipate. Turning, he saw only Brak remained, now gaining proper purchase on his own shadow’s throat. The thug quickly realised his predicament. He met Skerin’s eyes. Then he ran for the door.
Skerin let him go. Paid to fight, he’d be unlikely to cause problems. If anything, he’d spread word of how quickly the others had fallen. While he’d become inured to killing, Skerin didn’t do so unnecessarily.
Which left him alone with Brak, who moaned as his hands wrung the last life from his shadow. He regarded Skerin’s approach with wild-eyed fear.
Kneeling next to him, Skerin took the necklace of tongues from around his neck. With a final hard look at Brak, Skerin turned away.
“At least we have some fresh bodies,” said Lyrem as he descended from the balcony, examining the damaged carpet. “Got what you wanted, then?”
Skerin held up the necklace. “How do I tell which is mine?”
“How’d I know?” said Lyrem. “It’s not my tongue. Don’t you know?”
Skerin stared at him. “Only saw it once. Distracted at the time.”
Lyrem shrugged. “Can’t you just choose one that fits?”
Skerin continued staring.
“Fine,” said Lyrem. “I suppose there’re a few tests I can try.”
They ascended towards the laboratory, ignoring Brak as he staggered away, dragging his dead shadow behind him.
###
Additional material can be found at http://garethlewis.eu/SilentEchoes.html
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